The Lexington Hotel 1937

by Joseph Ridgwell

It was Friday evening and I was in the Griffin, watching the girls do their thing, but even with all the tit and pussy on show, my mind was elsewhere.  I was thinking about New York’s Lexington Hotel or more precisely a photo of the hotel in 1937. I’d gone into a phase of listening to old time Hawaiian music, and a good deal of the Lani McIntire Orchestra. Back in the 1930’S and 40’s the renowned orchestra played a regular slot in the famous Hawaiian Room of the Lexington Hotel.  I had four CD’s of the band and there were many period photographs in the sleeve notes, and one especially caught my eye.
       In the photo a couple sat at a table watching the band in the Hawaiian Room. There was a blond woman and a young man who looked exactly like me.  And that’s what had been bugging me ever since. Despite the period clothes and grainy black and white photo the guy was a dead ringer for yours truly. It was freaky. 
         As these thoughts occupied my mind one of the Griffin strippers strolled over and rattled a tin can in my face. The can was filled with smash and the odd banknote. I pulled a nugget from my pocket and flipped it into the can,
The girl leaned across, brushing a pert breast against my shoulder, and whispered in my ear, ‘Like a private show you gorgeous guy you?’
I took a swig from my pint and gave her the once over, tanned from head to toe, cute smile, voluptuous thighs, and a splendid derriere. If anyone was gorgeous it was her,
‘No thanks,’ I mumbled.
I watched as the girl strutted over to her next victim, her perfect arse wobbling all the way. Maybe I did want a private show after all? Na, fuck it, just leaves a man feeling frustrated, or heading off to the nearest Brass House.
     I downed the rest of my pint, took one last rueful look at a pair of firm breasts to my left, before making a swift exit. Outside the night was young, but I was good and boozy. I pulled out the sleeve notes that contained the photo of the man who looked like me. There he was sitting at the table, the blonde girl by his side. Shit, it was definitely me, my double, the similarities remarkable.
     Then I wondered if I’d ever lived before, about re-incarnation, or the possibility of experiencing life in one form or another over and over and over, ad infinitum.  But an alternative version of me, living in 1930’s New York, listening to Lani McIntire in the famous Hawaiian Room of the Lexington Hotel, with a sexy blonde by my side? Na, impossible, but the fucker sure did look like me.
     For some reason, as I made my way to the train station, I took a wrong turning.  It took a few seconds to realise my mistake and I stopped outside a shop that sold retro clothes. I stepped inside. The interior was dark and dingy and filled with rows and rows of old-fashioned clothes, attire from many different eras, even stretching back to Victorian times.
      The shop assistant, a pretty young girl dressed like a flapper, approached,
‘Can I help you?’ She asked.
Shit, she looked like Tallulah Bankhead, but prettier,
Suddenly I knew exactly what I wanted, ‘Have you got any American 1930’s retro clothing, I mean genuine articles?’
The flapper’s eyes brightened, ‘Yes, yes, we have, come this way.’
     The flapper led me to the very far end of the store. There was everything I needed back there. Double-breasted suits, two-tone shoes, unusual silk ties, even a selection of fedoras.  I tried on several items until I found what I thought was the perfect get-up. Then I admired myself in a full-length mirror,
‘You look like you just walked out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel,’ gushed the girl.
‘Do I?’
‘Yeah, all you need to do is slick back that fuzzy hair of yours.’
I checked out my hair. The girl was right. ‘Got any Brylcream?’
‘Only got an original 1950’s tub.’
After slicking back my hair James Cagney style I checked myself out in the mirror once again. I looked spick and span, ‘How much will this outfit set me back Tallulah?’
‘Tallulah?’
I winked at the girl, ‘Yeah, you know Tallulah Bankhead.’
The girl laughed and blushed bright red, ‘Oh god, you are funny, are you going to walk out of the shop like that?’
‘You know, now that you mention it, I think I will, just toss my modern clothes into a bag.’
     After paying for my purchases and collecting my old togs, I said goodbye to the beautiful assistant, and walked out into a cool evening. In my new/old clothes I felt enigmatic, more confident, but also somewhat freaky. I noticed passer-by’s shooting me odd looks and glances, and felt satisfyingly different. After a few moments of this it struck me how uniform everyone else dressed, the same skirts, tee-shirts, jeans, shoes, even haircuts.  They all looked the same.
       Then, as I caught sight of my reflection in a car window, a strange notion struck me. I pulled out the sleeve notes and gazed at the photo. Then I wondered if by mere concentration of thought I could somehow transport myself back to a bygone age. It sounded crazy, but if possible I’d be able to check out if the guy in the photo was me or an alternative version of me.
     I stood there on the pavement, closed my eyes, and began whispering a mantra over and over,
‘Take me back the Lexington Hotel, New York, March 30th, 1937, The Hawaiian Room, with Lani McIntyre’s orchestra playing, Take me back the Lexington Hotel, New York, March 30th, 1937 Take me back the Lexington Hotel, New York, March 30th, 1937…………’
    Then a strange thing happened. Suddenly I was no longer able to open my eyes and there was a loud whirring in my ears. This was followed by a blinding flash and a strange feeling of weightlessness. I heard music, faintly at first, but gradually increasing in volume. Then I heard the voice, a female voice,
‘Are you okay honey?’
I opened my eyes, ‘Huh,’ I replied somewhat drowsily.
‘You looked like you were about to drop off baby.’
      I looked at the stunningly attractive blonde sitting beside me.  Then the music burst into my consciousness, especially the unmistakable sound of the slide guitar,
‘Is that the Lani McIntyre orchestra?’ I stuttered in amazement.
The blonde shot me an incredulous stare, ‘Who the hell d’ya think it is, we’ve only been listening to them for the past hour?’
    I got it together just in time, ‘Oh yeah, yeah, lost it there for a while.’ My pronounced New Jersey accent threw me slightly, but I held it together. I picked up my half empty glass and downed the contents in one, ‘Jeez, need another drink.’
‘Take it easy baby.’
  I signalled to one of the waiters,
‘Two more of whatever we had before.’
Then a wave of panic. Did I have any money? I pulled out my wallet. It had changed from black to brown leather, but bulged nicely. I checked the contents, a thick wad of greenbacks.  Phew, relief.
      When the drinks came I turned to the girl, ‘What shall we do afterwards?’
‘What d’ya mean, what shall we do afterwards’
‘Well, I thought we might change plans.’
‘No way, buster, we’re going straight back to the hotel, and I want the money upfront.’
The money up front? Jesus Christ, even in another life it appeared I remained a great swordsman. ‘Ok, ok, but it’d better be worth it.’
The girl lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in my face, ‘Oh it’ll be worth it honey, you can rest assured on that.’
   Moments later Lani McIntyre stepped up to the microphone and announced the band were to play the last song of the evening. It was In a Little Hula Heaven, one of my all-time favourites,
‘Care to dance?’
‘Sure, why not?’
     As the band played on the blonde girl held me close, very close and put her head on my shoulder. Surprisingly, I knew all the moves to a dance I’d never done before,
‘Oh god, you’re sure making me hot baby,’ I said.
‘That’s what I’m paid to do honey,’ the girl sighed dreamily.
    When the song ended we waited in line to get our coats from the cloakroom. As we waited Lani McIntyre and his entourage walked past. I handed the coat tickets to the blonde,
‘Where ya going?’
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘You’d better be, I don’t want any funny business mister.’
    I found Lani McIntyre in the foyer,
‘Lani, Lani,’ I called out, barging past a couple of people in the process.
‘What’s the matter kid?’
I stopped to take a breath, ‘Can I have your autograph?’
Lani smiled a pearly white smile, ‘Why of course?’
‘I handed him a Hawaiian Room serviette and dug out a pen from somewhere, ‘Right here Mr McIntyre if you please.’
Lani took the serviette and pen, ‘What would you like me to write?’
‘To my number one fan, Joseph Ridgwell!’
And he did just that, signing his name with an impressive flourish.
      On the walk back to whatever hotel my alter-ego had booked into, I had another panic attack. What if I was unable to think myself back into the 21st century? After calming myself by taking deep breaths, I thought about the situation. The thick wad of greenbacks in my wallet probably meant I had some decent paying gig in this era, and the fact I was dining in the Lexington Hotel, indicated I might not be doing all that badly.
   Then I considered the alternative, life in the 21st century was shit, too many people, too much pollution, shit music, shit literature, shit cinema, shit television, shit politicians, basically just a big pile of wank turd. Fuck it, I reckoned I wasn’t meant for the times I was born into, so I might as well live in another,
‘How far to the hotel?’
The blonde stopped walking, ‘Hey, how drunk are you?’
Instantly I realised my error, ‘I’m as sober as a judge, I’ve just got a bad sense of direction.’
The blonde smiled and looped an arm into mine, ‘Lucky you got me with ya then honey?’
‘I’ll say.’
     The hotel the blonde took me confirmed my suspicions that, unlike the 21st century, where I was a starving writer bum, in the first half of the 20th I was a big cheese. Shit, it was even better than the Lexington.
       At reception I chanced it,
‘Room key for Mr Ridgwell,’ I said like a big shot.
The hotel employee gave the blonde a somewhat disdainful glance,
‘Which room number Mr Ridgwell?’
I didn’t even flinch, ‘That’s right, room key for Mr Ridgwell.’
The blonde girl exhibited an air of boredom and blew a large bubble from the gum she was chewing. The receptionist shook his head and began trawling through the guestbook. He’d better watch it, I thought, or I may not be responsible for my actions.
   Eventually the receptionist found what he was looking for,
‘Ah, Mr Ridgwell, room 455.’
‘That’s the one buddy.’
      Once inside the room the blonde got straight down to business. She jumped on the bed and began undressing. As for me, I’d already spotted the mini-bar,
‘Whoa lady, what’s the rush?’
The girl raised her skirt and began unclipping her suspenders,
‘I charge by the hour honey.’
I opened the mini-bar and pulled out two 1930’s bottle of buds. Wonder if they taste the same,’ I said aloud.
The girl raised one leg and began unravelling a stocking,
‘You sure come out with some crazy shit.’
The sight of meaty flank got me hot. I undid the bottle with my teeth, spat the cap out, and took a big hit. ‘Shit, even the beer tastes better,’ I said. Then I jumped beside the girl.
‘Wanna see my tits?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
     Seconds later I had a mouthful of nipple and had worked a hand inside the girl’s knickers,
‘By the way what’s your name?’ I gasped.
The girl looked me right in the eyes, ‘Does it matter?’
I stopped what I was doing for a moment and return the eyeball, ‘Na, suppose not, I’ll call you Tallulah.’
     Then, just as my stiff cock was about to enter the magic place there was a loud whirring sound in my ears, followed by a blinding flash, and a strange feeling of weightlessness,
‘Oh my god,’ said the girl.
‘Oh fuck,’ said I.
      The next thing I felt were two dull blows to my head and the sound of an angry voice, ‘You’re barred.’
I opened my eyes to find myself lying in the gutter outside the Griffin.
Two huge doormen were standing over me,
‘What the,’ I stuttered.
One of the men kicked me hard in the ribcage, ‘We warned you about touching the girls you sick perv!’
I mumbled sorry, picked myself up, and shambled away down the road.
     It was cold and wet, but when I put my hands in my pockets for warmth, I felt soft paper. It was a serviette, a serviette from New York’s Lexington Hotel. There was some writing on the serviette. I read the writing with trembling hands,
‘To my number one fan, Joseph Ridgwell,’ signed Lani McIntyre.

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, July 21st, 2008 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~